


Perfect Stranger

by Pageling



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chance Meetings, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hand & Finger Kink, Humor, Led Zeppelin References, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Romance, Soulmates, T'hy'la, diplomat Spock, sorry Beastie Boys, stack of books with legs Jim, they're such nerds seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 14:38:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18593311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pageling/pseuds/Pageling
Summary: Falling in love with a perfect stranger—the person you spot in the subway or bus who completely captivates you for a brief moment of irrational infatuation and longing—the unstoppable desire for someone you will never see again. Spock had assumed, with his half-Vulcan heritage, that he would be exempt from such illogical human quirks. Then, he finds himself sharing a morning commute with one James T. Kirk.





	Perfect Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends, once again Star Trek has come into my brain to control my life with tooth-rotting fluff and insatiable plot bunnies. I hope you enjoy this little slice of life and let me know what you think! 
> 
> Come visit or bug me on tumblr if you wish:  
> [Cat and the Fiddle](https://cat-and-the-fiddle.tumblr.com/)

Spock steps onto the loaded, local shuttle when it hisses to a halt at his usual stop, shuffling into the cabin along with the other commuters. The seats are sparsely populated this morning, and Spock notes with decided relief that this likely means that he will not be forced to share a table with any other passengers for at least two or three more stops. Perhaps when the shuttle picks up more commuters, the bench seat across the table from Spock would be occupied, but the Vulcan would be able enjoy his solitude for the time being.

While he looks for an empty booth to occupy for the duration of his ride to the Vulcan Embassy in the Financial District of San Francisco, a disgruntled Andorian gentleman brushes past Spock on his way to an unoccupied bench. His rude, agressive motion jostles Spock, making him stumble in the aisle as the transport begins to move. Spock flushes and resists the reaction to bristle at the breach of his personal space. However, he finds he isn’t quite able suppress the urge to glance around and see if anyone had witnessed the marginally embarrassing moment.

Directly across the aisle from the now seated Andorian, a young human male sits with fashionably retro headphones placed over his ears. The man’s eyes are closed, a faint smile on his lips while his head nods in time to an inaudible beat. Spock swallows tightly. It seemes that the human hadn’t noticed his stumble, and there were no other passengers who had been both facing Spock, and situated at the correct angle to witness the minor but undignified incident.

Willing himself to relax, Spock reminds himself that embarrassment, as an emotion, is illogical, especially in relation to a situation which is out of ones control. With this in mind, Spock unsticks his feet from the floor and quickly takes up residence in the nook behind the Andorian’s. This leaves Spock adjacent to the oblivious human across the aisle, their seats facing each other. As he smooths out his robes, Spock cannot help but further observe the young man.

On any given day, a number of the people on the shuttle Spock rides to work are vaguely familiar, but usually they are beings Spock has never seen before. Spock does not recognize this man. The human is relatively young—approximately twenty three standard Terran years, which is close to Spock’s own age—and dressed casually in a navy blue bomber jacket and black denim pants. One tapping foot rests partially in the aisle, revealing surprisingly sensible—if slightly scuffed—leather boots attached to long, muscular legs. The human’s clothing fits him well, from what Spock can make out around the table blocking the man’s midsection, where a PADD sits untouched beside a cup of takeaway coffee. Spock quickly grows distracted by the man’s hands, one of which is pressed flat to the table before him. The other hand fiddles with a stylus in a manner that frankly makes Spock’s mouth go dry and sends his heart into a swooping flutter in his side. Ripping his eyes away from the provocative sight, Spock’s gaze darts back up to the human’s face to take in dark blond hair that is a few shades lighter at the tips, likely from prolonged exposure to sunlight. His skin is relatively pale, though gently tanned in a manner that Spock interprets as what humans might deem a “healthy glow.” The man’s eyes are still closed with pleasure in response to whatever music he is listening to, thick, level eyebrows pinched slightly in concentration.

The blissful expression on the human’s face coupled with the impressions of his strong, rounded fingertips repeating in Spock’s mind is almost too much for the Vulcan, and he senses a blush rising to his cheeks once more. The human is, objectively, extremely gorgeous. Spock has been living on Earth for several years now, working with the Embassy. As a part of his duties, Spock interacts with a variety of humans daily—a side effect of living on Earth. The exotic quality of this species had worn off long ago, yet the man across the aisle from Spock has the Vulcan captivated. There is such an openness and ecstasy in his unguarded expression, moved emotionally by something as illogical as music on a transport ride in a way that only a human could accomplish.

Distantly, Spock wonders how many hours of his day this man spends out of visual contact with his world, and ponders the lack of logic in such an activity. The human is on a mode of public transport, where anyone might seek to harm him, and would be able to do so with convenience if the man’s hearing and sight were both obscured like they were currently. Whatever music is playing in the human’s headphones must be either particularly enrapturing, or the man is simply ridiculously comfortable where he sits, confident that he will be left unbothered. Spock wonders what kind of a being could be so unflappably certain of himself that he could do entirely as he pleased, and believe the rest of the world would simply fall in line around his own decisions.

With a shake of his head, Spock drops his gaze to his own table and pulls out a PADD. If he cannot not regain his focus and quell his sudden, obsessive fascination with this human, Spock will be forced to reevaluate his mental stability. As the transport moves along and makes several more stops, Spock succeeds in working through several reports, uninterrupted by any other passengers coming to sit beside him or across from him.

After a small juncture, Spock looks up again to find the seat the spectacular human male once occupied startlingly empty. Squashing the unacceptable disappointment that rises up within him at the man’s absence, Spock gathers his belongings and moves to depart when the shuttle arrives at his stop. As he walks the few blocks from the shuttle stop to the Embassy, Spock reasons that it is completely illogical to mourn the loss of the human from his commute. The man was a stranger, and one of another species. There is no reason for Spock to have grown so irrationally attached in such a short amount of time, when logic dictates that he and the human were never meant to interact, and that he will never see the man again. Pacified by his reasoning, Spock relaxes into his work and allows the the human to drift from his mind.

——————————

The next morning, when Spock takes shelter from the light precipitation beneath the transport station’s shallow portico, he finds his thoughts consumed by the unfortunately stressful day scheduled ahead of him. As his father’s assistant and representative while the older Vulcan is off-planet, Spock is tasked with ensuring smooth cultural relations between his own people and those of Earth. He has several meetings scheduled for today, and while Spock is confident he can handle them without the aid of his father, the self-imposed pressure Spock feels upon assuming his position is not easily alleviated.

The shuttle finally arrives, and Spock quickly closes the distance between his shelter and the door, loathing the feeling of water drops on his head. It is not a pleasant start to the day. Preoccupied as he is, Spock does not think as he takes up the same seat as he had yesterday. It is simply the nearest empty bench, and Spock settles himself down with a quiet ruffle of his waterproof coat against the robes beneath. The Vulcan is so lost in thought that for several moments, he does not look up from the small table before him, too concerned with the ways in which he might convince the delegates to the Vulcan Science Academy to allow for a greater budget concerning Earth studies and human culture. When he eventually comes to a more thoroughly settled conclusion, Spock takes in a deep, silent breath and briefly closes his eyes to rest them.

When he blinks his eyes open again, Spock is slightly startled to find the same young human from yesterday seated across the aisle and one row ahead, facing Spock just as he had the day before. The man is dressed in a similarly casual style, the effortless fit of his garments providing Spock a better image of the human’s body than he had received yesterday. The man has removed his raincoat and placed it on the seat beside him in a rumpled heap, revealing a soft looking gray sweater that pulls tight around muscular arms and what Spock imagines is a very toned chest, tapering down to a narrow waist and attractively trim hips.

The Vulcan swallows quietly as his gaze dips down to the human’s hands, which today tap a steady rhythm on the synthetic material of the table before him. With a slight tilt of his head to one side, Spock notes that the man’s hands bear faint signs of electrical scarring, as if he has a habit of carelessly placing his appendages within the reach of live wires. Perhaps he is an engineer. Spock does not understand why the human would not seek a dermal regenerator to prevent the minor scaring, but strangely, Spock finds himself attracted to the minute pinpricks of pink, smooth flesh scattered across the man’s hands like stars.

The human’s eyes are closed once more, headphones in place. Spock takes a moment to quickly scan the man’s face for any other signs of scarring. He is pleased when he finds none. Spock takes this as a hopeful interpretation that the man is at least wise enough not to place his head near the dangerous wires he subjects his hands to. While he watches, the human’s expression shifts into an easy smile, and Spock realizes with a start that the man is silently mouthing the words to the song he is listening to.

Before he can help himself, Spock’s gaze fixes on the man’s mouth, hungrily reading the tacit words only the human can hear. The man forms the lyrics with soft, silent syllables, adam’s apple bobbing enticingly above the collar of his sweater. Spock is suddenly desperate to know what this human knows—what makes him feel and forget the world—and looses himself in the motion of the man’s lips, like slipping into a dream.

“—let the sun beat down upon my face… stars fill my dreams. I am a traveler of both time and space… to be where I have been. Sit with elders of the gentle race… this world has seldom seen. They talk of days for which they sit and wait. All will be revealed…”

None of the words are formed with any actual voice behind them, completely soundless. It is almost heartbreaking. Spock finds himself dizzy with need, wishing so suddenly, so desperately, to know what the human sounds like—to know if he would whisper sweet words to Spock, who reforms the nonsense lyrics of the unheard song in his own mind, and plays them over and over and over again like a promise. There is a pause in the verses of the song, and when the human begins to mouth words again, Spock fixates on the soft, slightly damp skin of the man’s pink lips, any additional lyrics lost to him in favor of drinking in the man himself. The words do not matter nearly as much as the way the beautiful human forms them.

When the song finishes, the man does not mouth any more words, though judging by the changing paces of the man’s tapping fingers, it is clear that the music continues. For the duration of the human’s ride, Spock cannot look away. It is fortunate that the man remains so enthralled in his own private world and never looks Spock's way, allowing the Vulcan to observe unnoticed and unscrutinized. When the shuttle stops one destination before Spock’s own departure point and the human suddenly jumps up to leave, Spock diverts his eyes before he can be caught watching. Illogical shame burns the tips of his ears and shades his cheeks and the back of his neck an embarrassed green. The human gathers his belongings and gets off with a spring in his step that makes Spock imagine the man is almost eager to venture back out into the rain. When Spock memorizes the name of the human’s shuttle stop, he attempts not to feel guilty about the lack of logic in it.

Spock spends the rest of the ride to the Embassy indulging in a wholly illogical, completely unforgivable fantasy. The Vulcan wonders if the human has a mate, and wonders if the man would enjoy spending time with Spock. He wonders about the human’s life, the man’s friends, his name, his career. He wonders how the human looks when he is excited or sad, and how well he would play chess. In such a world of unpredictabilities and things that are never as they seem, the rules and logic of the game have often provided Spock with a sense of order and a pattern with which to navigate life. The Vulcan longs to know how the human operates in such a confusing world, illogical yet perfectly at home—thriving. He wonders if the man would play chess like he lives his life, as illogical and brave as Spock is rational and measured.

It is inexcusable to harbor such useless thoughts, yet Spock takes them and surrounds himself with them, reveling in the life he could have with this perfect stranger. It is safer, somehow, to fantasize about a man he does not know and will never come to know. Even if Spock continues to see the human occasionally on his trips to work, the Vulcan knows they will never be together. In fact, it is unlikely that they will ever even speak. It is difficult to ignore the way this thought makes his _katra_ ache. Spock returns home that evening and rereads his mother’s old paper copy of _Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There_ , falling asleep to thoughts of the safe order of chess and fate, in a world that is now even more so like nothing he has ever known.

——————————

The next time Spock boards the morning shuttle, he is secretly hopeful that he will find himself sharing the cabin with his unusual human once more, and fully cognizant of the fact that it is likely he will be disappointed.

However, when Spock enters the aisle and spots a now familiar head of blond hair topped by the smooth band of a pair of headphones, he feels his heart flutter in his side and his lips twitch in a near-smile. The seat that Spock has habitually occupied the past two days remains open this morning as well, and the Vulcan tries not to feel too irrationally pleased as he settles into his spot. Spock doesn’t dare look across the aisle as he sits down, lest he be caught looking at the human too soon, though he is burning to observe how the man is faring today, and to know if he will bear more unspoken words on his lips.

After forcing himself to scan through a report from T’Pel regarding their budget on his PADD for several stops, Spock risks a glance up at the human. Today the man’s head is tipped back against the headrest of his seat, exposing the column of his throat and distracting lines of smooth muscle that disappear into the collar of today’s sweatshirt. The man’s eyes remain closed as he sits with his hands in his lap, and he is so unusually still that Spock would think the man asleep if not for the subtle, slow tap of his foot under the table. It is undeniable that the human is beautiful like this, even though he is much less vibrant now than Spock has ever seen him. Perhaps the human is suffering from some unknown ailment, or he is currently subject to one of the illogical “moods” his mother was so fond of explaining that humans went through. Emotions were unpredictable and strange, as Spock was so quickly learning, and he found himself sympathizing with the man.

It was such a completely novel, unexpected experience to be so deeply fascinated with this unnamed human male that Spock has taken to meditating over the issue during the past several days. When meditation and working through the situation logically did nothing to mitigate Spock’s newfound predilection for emotion concerning the human, he had decided there was nothing to be done about it but observe. His mother would have advised him to listen to his heart, and Spock’s heart has never before raced like this in response to another being. This human was special, somehow, to make him feel like this. Spock just didn’t know what to do about it yet.

Not realizing that he had allowed his eyes to lose focus on the human’s form as he frowned and pondered his own interiority, Spock comes back to himself with a start when he realized that the human has lifted his head—and is staring right at Spock.

Shockingly bright eyes stare directly into Spock’s own, freezing the Vulcan in place as his stomach drops out and his ears begin to burn with a disquieting mixture of alarm and embarrassment. The human blinks several times, not shying away from Spock’s gaze, and then cocks his head with a smile.

Spock’s shoulders tense inexplicably, and his hand flies unbidden to press against his ribs where his heart seems to have skipped several beats. The human’s eyes crinkle at the corners as his smile shifts from one unnamed emotion to another, and Spock drops his eyes with a panic, blood roaring in his ears. The human makes a soft, amused sound that has Spock’s cheeks heating. In Spock’s periphery, the human begins to dig something out of his backpack to set it on the table with a soft thud. Spock stares unseeingly down at his own PADD, not daring to look up again for the rest of the ride. When the human finally departs, just one stop before Spock’s, the Vulcan’s heart has not slowed its accelerated pace in the slightest.

——————————

The next several weeks, Spock continues to take his place across the aisle and one seat back from the blond human’s, ears tinged green with a flush that no amount of Vulcan discipline would dispel. Although Spock now makes an effort not to look at the human, not daring to stare at the man for minutes on end like he had before, he cannot help but steal occasional, curious glances. Most mornings, the human still bobs his head or mouths the words to songs Spock cannot hear, tapping his hands or moving various other parts of his body to the beat. He is still captivating to watch, but now that his own presence is a known factor, Spock is less willing to take the risk of being caught looking. Surely the human was only being polite, returning Spock’s odd stare with a smile, and would not appreciate the Vulcan’s continued preoccupation with him.

However, on the rare occasions that their eyes do meet, and the human always smiles at Spock, bright and blinding, even when Spock never smiles back, and always looks away too quickly. His unusual feelings of attraction to the human do not dissipate despite the decrease in visual contact, but perhaps that has something to do with the fact that now, not all of the looking is one-sided. Sometimes when Spock is reading over information on his PADD, the human grows more still than usual, and Spock can almost feel the man’s eyes on him, as if he feels safer watching the Vulcan when he believes Spock is not aware of him. In those moments, Spock purposefully never looks up to meet the man’s gaze, loathe to break the spell, or acknowledge the man’s attention lest his own interests be so directly observed by the human.

Today, the man sits in his usual place across the aisle from Spock with his headphones on, clutching at a larger than usual cup of takeaway coffee in his lap. Spock cannot help but notice the slight purple smudges beneath the human’s eyes, and he frowns, wracking his brain for any similar symptoms his mother might have once displayed. Spock should be looking over T’Pel’s data projections on his PADD, with their final appeal for the value of Terran studies to the Vulcan Science Academy scheduled to occur in two days time. Instead, what occupies Spock’s thoughts is the human.

Eventually, after watching the man’s lips part for a wide yawn that he barely hides behind the back of his hand, it dawns on Spock that the human is tired. The darkness under his eyes and the increased amount of caffeine the man intends to consume indicate a lack of sufficient rest. Spock finds himself frowning at the thought. The man is sleepy. It is much more endearing than it should be.

Spock’s eyes trail after the human’s fingers as they fall from his mouth to the table, unable to help the significant appreciation he holds for the man’s hands. Spock imagines what it would be like to brush his own fingertips over the backs of the human’s knuckles in a tender display of passion, or press the pads of their fingers together in a more chaste Vulcan gesture somewhat equivalent to human hand-holding. Spock longs to know if the human would be happy at his side, if such a magnetic, vibrant individual could be as fascinated with Spock as Spock was with him. Knowing that this fantasy of returned attraction was truly just a fantasy likely to never be reciprocated, Spock swallows a sigh and glances once more at where the human’s hand has fallen.

As he refocuses, Spock’s eyes are naturally drawn to the human’s fingers again, and he realizes with a start that the man’s hand rests on an open book. Blinking with mild surprise, Spock leans back in his seat and lowers his PADD slightly. Paper books are an antique rarity, treasured amongst collectors and lovers of the written word. To own such an object suggests a high appreciation of literature, which Spock finds himself pleased to know he has in common with his human. The man is clearly not a collector for the sake of simply owning books, as he is very visibly reading the text on the pages, engaged despite his obvious drowsiness. His human enjoys books—real books—and enjoys them enough to read and study them in his spare time. In that moment, Spock is struck with the realization that perhaps, this is what it felt like to be in love.

What a fascinating, artistic mind must rest in the man’s skull, Spock wonders, longing to know the human’s opinions on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, William Shakespeare, or Charles Dickens. Perhaps, if the man is interested the literary arts, and has an affinity for recorded music, then the human might play an instrument as well. Spock wonders if he could teach the human how to play the Vulcan lyre, or maybe the human, with his love of lyrics and literature, could help Spock draft words for his personal compositions.

So distracted by the warm, pleasant feeling curling itself about his limbs and making itself at home in his head, Spock almost does not notice when the human looks up from his book with a knowing smile. Spock lifts his gaze from the human’s hands on the book to meet his eyes and feels suddenly completely transparent, and very caught.

Spock looks away with wide eyes and warm cheeks to accompany his now perpetually warm ears. There is an odd huff of a noise from the human’s direction that could have been a laugh if it had not sounded so gentle, but Spock is too busy appearing to be preoccupied with looking out the window to notice. The Vulcan studiously refrains from looking at the human again for the rest of the man’s journey, lest something be seen in his eyes that might upset the delicately neutral, mutual acknowledgement of awareness that has developed between them. The human is slower to leave than usual at his customary stop, taking too long to gather his things and trail out of the transport. Whether the lethargy is due to lack of sleep, or is something related to the human meeting Spock’s eyes, the Vulcan does not know. Spock remains angled towards the window as the human passes him, stubbornly avoiding his gaze.

It is only when the transport moves on from the human’s stop that Spock allows himself to straighten and face forward again, eyes straying out of habit to the human’s recently vacated seat. Surprise, worry, and wonder unfurl in Spock’s chest as his gaze alights upon the solitary object left resting on the table—the human has forgotten his book.

Moving quickly, Spock rises and darts across the aisle to snatch up the paper artifact and hold it tight to his chest. He returns just as urgently to his own seat with his prize, heart beating staccato against his ribs. With his fingers curled carefully around his human’s precious possession, Spock stares blankly at the table in front of him. Spock does not know why he had moved so swiftly, without any rational process of thought, to retrieve the other man’s novel. Now that he is reseated, Spock might certainly reason that it was only logical to gain temporary possession of the book so as to keep it from falling into the hands of another, who could not be trusted with returning it to the rightful owner. Spock encountered the human on a daily basis, and was therefore the natural candidate to be entrusted with the book’s safekeeping and delivery. It was an excellent excuse, formed in hindsight.

The truth of the matter was, Spock had not acted on any form of logic at all. He had acted on instinct and want, drawn by the inexplicable desire to take care of the human he had grown so fond of without ever speaking to him. The sentiments and protective instincts did not bother the Vulcan as much as they should have today, and if the corners of his lips twitch upward as he departs the shuttle with the book still held to his chest, it is of no consequence to anyone but Spock himself.

——————————

When the breathtakingly handsome Vulcan that has been the object of Jim’s hopes and dreams for the past month or so steps into the transport that morning with a familiar shape tucked under his arm, Jim is practically vibrating in his seat. Jim doesn’t even bother to hold back his smile, watching his crush—though, really, it’s a lot more than that by now— walk past his usual seat and right up to him instead. The pale Vulcan’s face is already an attractive shade of delicate green that does wonders for his high cheekbones, but his back is as straight as ever, posture regal.

“I believe that upon your departure from the shuttle yesterday morning, you left this behind,” the Vulcan begins as he holds out Jim’s book, and oh, holy hell, his voice was _made_ for the bedroom. “I took the liberty of ensuring its safekeeping. I understand that such items are precious on Earth, as they are to me personally, and I must admit that I… wished to see it returned to you, and did not trust any other to do so. Forgive me if I have been presumptuous.”

Jim doesn’t even have to pretend to look a little dazed, as if he actually forgot the book instead of leaving it for the Vulcan on purpose. He’s still reeling over how it feels to actually be engaged in conversation with the man, so the daze is entirely natural. The shuttle starts moving, and Jim slips his headphones off of his ears to rest around his neck—they hadn’t been playing anything this morning anyway, since Jim has been anticipating this moment. He has no intention of needing his music today at all, in fact, if everything goes according to plan.

“Oh, wow, thank you so much!” Jim replies brightly, accepting his lovingly worn book from the Vulcan’s extended hand, a little slow on the uptake this morning. Jim is usually much more smooth with the flirting, but no one has ever thrown him for a loop like his mysterious commuting Vulcan.

“I’ve read _The Odyssey_ a bunch of times, but I don’t know what I’d do if I lost it,” he adds, heart pounding in his chest as he gazes up into the Vulcan’s eyes. They’re so much more liquid and expressive up close, and Jim is already lost in them.

“I’m James T. Kirk… call me Jim,” he continues bravely, keeping his hands flat on the table in an attempt to resist the reflex of offering one for a shake, which takes a surprising amount of effort. But Jim has done his homework, damnit, and he isn’t gonna mess this one up. The Vulcan blinks slowly, looking more puzzled and interested than a Vulcan had any right to look. Eventually, he unfreezes dips his chin to Jim in a slow, elegant nod.

“I am Spock,” he announces, and Jim’s cheeks begin ache from smiling so much.

“Nice to meet you, Mister Spock,” Jim returns, adding just a touch of gentle teasing to his tone as he raises his hand for a brief _ta-al_. Jim doesn’t know how Vulcans flirt, but he isn’t usually subtle when it comes to these things. Jim is pleasantly surprised when the tall Vulcan’s gaze visibly flicks over to his spread fingers, and he swallows with a barely audible click. Definitely interested, then, Jim decides.

It’s a good thing Jim is so naturally fidgety too. It had been a cinch to make a show of himself, moving his fingers around to his music during their usual shuttle rides, and generally making a display of his human-ness, once Jim realized Spock made a habit of watching. The day Jim had purposefully nibbled his fingernails while working on his PADD had been one of his favorite occurrences in particular. The Vulcan had been zeroed in on Jim practically the whole time, and blushed nearly as green as an Orion when Jim looked at him and smiled half way through the ride. It had been worth it, even if Spock could barely look at Jim the next day. The Vulcan had obviously recovered though, if their current situation was anything to go by.

“It is pleasant to become properly acquainted with you as well, Jim,” Spock eventually replies, raising a more practiced _ta-al_ of his own before tucking both hands behind his back. The position makes the Vulcan’s robes draw taught over his chest and reveals the ridiculously sexy lines of his long torso. Dragging his eyes back up to Spock’s face in case he is too obviously ogling the Vulcan, Jim fixes the man with a sunny smile and gestures to the empty seat across from him.

“If you’d ever like some company, feel free to join me,” Jim offers, leaning back in his seat in an attempt to appear less threatening and give the Vulcan more room should he decide to take up Jim’s offer and sit on the other side of the table. “If you like books, I’m your man. I haven’t had a good literary discussion in ages.”

Spock seems to consider the offer for a moment, eyes unreadable now as they bore into Jim’s own. The Vulcan’s jaw twitches as if he’s fighting some sort of inner battle, but eventually his proud shoulders slump forward the smallest fraction in defeat, or maybe disgust. Jim is still learning how to read the Vulcan. He’s pretty good, but all his practice has been nonverbal, and conducted from several meters away.

“Regrettably, I have been remiss of such an opportunity as well. However, today I must complete a review of my colleague’s proposal before I am due in my office, as we are scheduled to present today. I… perhaps another time. I am grateful for your offer,” Spock finishes, mouth hanging open as if about to add something more, before snapping shut again. Spock looks like he’s eaten something sour when he turns on his heel and walks away. Once he reaches his seat, the Vulcan tucks himself back into his usual spot, out of reach, and fixes his focus on his PADD.

Jim feels himself immediately deflate, cheerful expression melting into one of dejected disbelief. Spock brushed him off for _paperwork_. Jim had been so sure that breaking the ice between them would be all that was needed to start something more. Maybe all of those shy, hungry looks from Spock had been misinterpreted. Or, worse, maybe Spock was married or something, and Jim was sitting there putting on a show like a slut every morning, flaunting himself in front of a taken man.

Sinking low into his seat, Jim sulks and flips open his recently returned book. For the rest of the ride, he reads, and wonders for the first time if he is not Odysseus, the cunning hero searching for home, but Calypso, the love-struck goddess who longs for a lover she cannot keep. Jim doesn’t listen to his music for the first time in months, and doesn’t look at Spock when it’s time to get off at his stop.

——————————

The morning after Jim finally meets and is rejected by Spock, he almost takes a different transport into the city. He knows Spock hadn’t been rude or even unkind to him during their brief interaction, but Jim gets the feeling that now that things are going to be awkward between them. He could leave now, detach and move on with his life without really losing much or putting himself in a position to be hurt. But Jim Kirk has never been a coward, and changing shuttles would be admitting defeat to a no-win scenario. So Jim will stand his ground and find the silver lining to his current situation, awkwardness be damned.

Maybe he’s just overreacting and Spock really did just have paperwork to do for whatever presentation he'd mentioned was happening yesterday. Maybe Jim had just been too forward for his the man’s Vulcan sensibilities. There were too many places Jim could have guessed wrong, too many things to be lost in translation. But Jim had been careful. By Earth standards, he had been perfectly tame and platonically friendly, if that was how Spock chose to view their interaction. And the man had taken and returned Jim’s “lost” book, just like he knew the Vulcan would. A lesser man would have taken the book and run, but Spock hadn’t. There was something worthwhile between them, if Jim could get enough of a read on Spock to successfully take a gamble like that after only a month of stolen glances and friendly smiles on their trips to work.

They would figure this out. Jim would have Spock one way or another, even if only as a friend, and even if he had to befriend the Vulcan bit by bit over several years. There was just something about the man that Jim could’t let go of. He was a romantic at heart. Ever since the first day he’d pretended not to see the the Vulcan get flustered over being jostled by that asshole Andorian who usually sat in the back of the shuttle, Jim had been enamored. Spock was just… different.

Jim had thought the initial glimpse of Spock and the feelings that followed would just be one more incident in a line of fleeting crushes, and had dismissed his initial attraction to Spock out of hand. He wasn’t about to ask a guy he’d never seen or met before out during his ride to work. But later that day, Jim hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the Vulcan, and when they happened to find each other again on their commute the next day, Jim’s heart had been history.

The showing off for the Vulcan hadn’t started out on purpose either, and was just another happy coincidence that had Jim wondering if things between them were simply destined to be. It had taken Jim a few weeks to figure out why his crush seemed so interested in his hands, but after that, Jim was only motivated even more to keep doing what he had been doing all along, if Spock was enjoying it. Maybe Jim would tone all that down now, though, if it had been making Spock uncomfortable.

When the Vulcan climbs into the shuttle a few stops after Jim gets on, he can’t help the smile that lights up his face. Spock seems to spot him right away, eyebrows rising to meet the heavy line of his bangs. Jim feels his own cheeks flush with color, and he offers Spock a weak wave. The Vulcan does’t return it, and for a second Jim is disappointed, because, really, the guy was looking right at him. But then Jim notices the paper cups in each of the Vulcan’s hands and his disappointment dissipates into something closer to surprised anticipation. Spock had two cups. Of coffee. Two coffees. One Spock. One Jim.

Jim glances down at the empty table in front of himself and is infinitely thrilled that last night he’d gotten enough decent sleep to forgo buying himself the extra cup of coffee on his way to the shuttle stop.

When Spock walks up to Jim’s seat, passing his own for the second day in a row, Jim tries not to let the butterflies in his stomach get the best of him.

“Good morning, Jim,” Spock begins politely, voice just as low and deliciously rumbly as Jim remembers. This morning, Spock looks strangely more relaxed than Jim has ever seen him. His ears are still a little green, but today the man isn’t blushing hard enough to give himself a spontaneous nosebleed, and he seems to have no trouble meeting Jim’s eyes. Confidence is a good look on him.

“ ‘morning, Spock. Come back for that literature chat?” Jim greets playfully, feeling dizzy with glee and disbelief. He nearly swoons when Spock’s mouth quirks up just a smidge on one side in a poorly aborted smile.

“Indeed,” the Vulcan returns, holding out a steaming cup of coffee to Jim, who takes it with an awed expression and a careful hand. He pointedly grips the cup without touching any of Spock’s fingers and is feeling damn proud of himself for it when Spock lets go and brushes the side of Jim’s pinky as he draws his own hand away. The tiny, crooked smile is still there, and Jim is gazing up at the Vulcan with open adoration and awe now. So much for subtle Vulcan flirting.

“May I?” Spock asks gently, and even though his tone is as level as ever, Jim swears the Vulcan is laughing at his visible shock and worshipful expression. Jim has spent ages silently pining for Spock from across the aisle, wishing for the unimaginable, and so soon after he thought he’d messed things up, here Spock was approaching him in a way that flipped all of Jim’s expectations on their heads. Maybe he had been right about Spock’s interest in him, and all it had taken was a little nudge to get them going.

Jim nods mutely in response to Spock’s question, not trusting his own voice as the Vulcan takes the advantage of the permission to fold himself into the seat across from Jim. Spock’s legs are longer than his own, and for a brief moment, the Vulcan’s robes brush against the fabric of Jim’s pants, knees knocking.

“Thank you for the coffee—you didn’t have to do that, you know.”

Spock nods as if this is the most obvious thing in the universe. “I am well aware, Jim. However, I was under the impression that in most Terran social circles, sharing a conversation over coffee with another individual is considered an acceptable form of the so-called, ‘first date.’”

The gentle, surprised laugh that spills out of Jim lights up the small space between them, and Spock’s brown eyes widen beautifully in response. Speaking quickly so that Spock doesn’t think Jim is teasing him, Jim shakes his head and raises his cup of coffee in a mock toast. His heart feels full enough to burst.

“I would be honored, Mister Spock,” he murmurs, feeling truly graced by Spock’s easy presence. Jim gets the impression that today is going to be a very good day. Excited to engage with Spock and intending to keep his promise of talking about books, Jim adopts an earnest, interested smile and asks, “now, how do you feel about the works of Lewis Carroll?”

The expression that brightens Spock’s face is the most unguarded one Jim has seen yet, and his eyes are warmer than Jim had ever imagined. Jim must have picked a good author, for Spock to light up like that.

“A curious choice, considering _Through the Looking-Glass_ is perhaps what one might call a favorite of mine.” Spock’s eyes sparkle with quiet mirth and shocking vulnerability—trust and hope wrapped into one. “I believe… that its principles have guided me through much of my childhood and adult life.”

The genuine warmth of Jim’s smile could melt the polar ice caps, and his heart beats heavily in his chest while Spock's attention envelops him like a perfect, invisible hug. He feels ridiculously fond of the Vulcan in front of him, and their coming together seems so natural, like the culmination of a thousand lifetimes of waiting. Somehow, what Spock is sharing with him, in so few words, Jim understands. He wants more, wants to give more. Jim thinks for a brief moment about the themes of Spock’s favorite novel, and meets his eyes, open and considering. Jim leans forward with his elbows on the table.

“If you’re such a fan of Carroll’s books, do you also play chess?”

Spock’s reflexive smile is answer enough, and Jim finds himself chuckling again, utterly charmed by the Vulcan who is finally within reach.

“Stop me if this is too soon, Mister Spock, but I feel as if I’ve known you all my life.”

Spock shakes his head and answers with a smile wide enough to show the barest hint of teeth. Jim wonders if he’s broken the man in front of him, but the strong voice that fills his ears is nothing less than completely, utterly whole.

“It would seem, Jim, that we were simply meant to be.”


End file.
